Some where, south of the African Equator. . . .

THIS BLOG

The South of the African Equator blog expressed the views and opinions of its author discussing various subjects concerned, mostly, with national affairs. The sentiments expressed here are those of the author and do not reflect the views of either his business, family or friends.

The author does not subscribe to the suppression of thoughts, notions, or beliefs, nor keeping silent in the face of apparent injustices, corruption and intolerance perpetrated by the state, business, or individuals.

From time to time the author may offend those who do not agree with his views. Each and everyone offended has the right to express his, her or their side of the issue in the comments section of this blog, which have been left open for this purpose.

Search this Blog

Category: Personal

By Andrew Field – Follow on TwitterOur fleeting exchanges with nature allow us to reflect on how we handle the real world, but sometimes we are jolted into a sense of reality when nature turns on itself. A short while ago I was privileged to spend yet another period in Mana Pools and be with the wild. For a few years now, I have been an occasional observer of the most amazing union between the ‘grandmother’ lioness of Mana Pools and her issue, a healthy lioness we shall refer to as the ‘daughter’.

Incredibly, the older lioness has survived these last few years almost entirely due to the presence of her offspring despite the duo being ostracised by the main prides of the park. The old girl was toothless, incapable of hunting, and reliant on the younger animal. It is estimated the old girl is about 16 years of age. Each visit there is a mission to find this couple, a personal charge in a way, to be sure the old girl is all right.

Occasionally there are additions to this mini pride, in the form of cubs, usually two, and it is delightful to spend time with them, if one can. Last year there was a single surviving cub, named Bertie. Sadly, the record of survival for cubs is slim. While the dominant males from the main prides sire these cubs, they become easily victim to a nasty trait in paternal males and other predators in the park.

On my recent arrival at my normal ‘digs’ in the park, Goliath Safaris, I was told that the old girl had last been sighted a couple of days back, but that she had been deserted by the daughter. In all probability the grandmother would have succumbed by then. Saddened by this news, the days that followed were spent mostly on lion spoor, looking for a pride we know as the ‘Spice Girls’, or the males, ‘The Backstreet Boys’, ever hopeful we would stumble upon the tracks of the grandmother and daughter.

Our first encounter with the pride was a small hunting group, a skittish bunch of young males and a female, but they didn’t stick around to greet us. In fact we had little chance with a young bull elephant seemingly chasing them off his patch. A little later in the day, approaching noon, we received a report of a sighting of the old girl. Excited and eager, we trekked to the approximate location and set off looking for more spoor, but no sign was found. We had been given poor directions.

While travelling back to camp for our siesta, we were blessed with an accidental sighting of the old girl from the vehicle, quite near where we had seen that flighty pride on the hunt. We stopped and moved in on foot to observe her. The old girl had aged so much since last seeing her… she was definitely on her last legs, thin, bone structure protruding, exhausted; just wanting to lay peacefully and die. She offered us a permeating growl, akin to the purr of a Harley Davidson, but was really quite disinterested with the invasion of her space. No sign of the daughter or any cubs was apparent.

Astonishingly, there lay nearby the lioness a carcass of a dead honey badger, a ferocious little beast which would never have been easy prey and which, clearly, the old girl had neither hunted nor killed. Was this an opportunity discovery? Not likely, scavengers abound here. Then, how did the old girl manage to acquire this food? Did that jumpy hunting pride leave her with this food? We’ll never know, but I would like to think they did.

We sat a short distance from her, tolerating the occasional soft roar and growl… I know the others, like me, were silently bidding the old matriarch farewell; her survival was numbered in hours rather than days… a few tears were scuffed away. So strange how we build such compassion for these beasts, which would happily rip us apart in their prime, but we do. There is a telepathy of acknowledgement; almost a psychic inner feeling between man and beast. We slowly, yet sadly, withdrew… this was our last sighting of the grand old lady of Mana.

A few days later, we had stumbled across a large pack of wild dogs and spend time with them, photographing the pack and individuals… our sojourn was interrupted by a large lioness moving through the area, in the late afternoon, offering a deep penetrating calls which would be heard for miles, perhaps seeking other members of the pride.

The dogs moved defensively towards her in a large pack and we followed some distance behind. The solitary lioness broke into an opening and showed herself. It was the ‘daughter’ without doubt! We will never know if she was calling for her mother or perhaps already mourning her loss, but clearly she is alone now. There was no sign of Bertie. The dogs retreated as if offering respect.

There is no confirmation of the old girl’s passing, I pray it was peaceful. Hopefully the daughter will integrate back into the main-steam prides of Mana and continue her normal life, else her own survival will be brief. Her fascinating dedication to the upkeep of her mother, against many harsh odds, is a truly wonderful and exceptional demonstration of the human-like love and bonding that all we know so well.

He moved forward slowly, the sweat dripping from his forehead, the sun baking down between sparse mopani canopies. The warmth of his dusty environment challenges him every step through the thick brush, the dryness overwhelms, but he must progress, ever on the lookout for any guiding sign. The wisp of a warm breeze brings the mild aroma of the African bush, the sweet spring fragrance of new tree blooms. He is silent, hopeful of hearing a twig break underfoot or the crack of a branch broken by his browsing quarry. Alas, the silence of the bush is broken only by the cry of a distant fish eagle, down towards the river’s edge, or the excited twitter of birds above, betraying his presence. The signs are few.

The gentle monster is there, somewhere, but stealthy, silent and aware of his pursuer, although not fugitive. He is not feeding in the heat of the noon hours. The bull moves without a sound, his huge feet pliable and sensitive to the trail that he follows, occasionally stopping for idle moments in the shade of the larger trees. His uplifted trunk scans the air with periscope movement for foreign smells, for his sight is not good in the mid-day glare. The beast offers the occasional rumbling, a distance communication mostly inaudible to humans, and then moves on in the sweltering heat.

Suddenly they are upon each other, face to face, surprised and both cannily brave. The bull elephant towers at almost three meters, just huge, the largest land mammal. Weighing five tonnes or more with ears flared, tusks protruding and startled. He trumpets his disapproval, stands tall, tossing his head. Extreme dangers prevail upon the man. Instinctively, the camera is levelled at the big fellow and film flows through its sprockets, while photographer seeks to capture that ‘perfect shot’, oblivious to the threat for those critical seconds. Both of them stand down, back off a little, but not loosing eye contact. The adrenaline begins to flow, heart rates accelerate, and the camera begins to shake mildly. Discretion dictates that the photographer should be the looser here, but in his own special way he is a winner too.

Life is full of encounters which bring you to the threshold of victory or defeat and by standing forever tall against your opposition you will triumph, even as the vanquished – Andrew Field – October 2009

I am getting to that age when your friends around you start falling off the perch. The frequency of funeral attendances of old soldiers, family and friends is a disturbing reality, and no doubt I might pop my clogs too, one of these days. In some respects, I guess this is a little taboo, but just this morning while browsing my Facebook account up pops poor old Joe Bloggs, a now late, former teacher from years back, when the cane was the order of the day.
Its a little eerie when a now ghostly appearance is made suggesting Joe Bloggs be ‘Added as a Friend’, which you cannot help but refuse. It gives you’re the shivers! At LinkedIn I had a recently passed contact, a dear friend and colleague too, still on my listing. Deleting him was akin to having the dog put down at the vet, I kid you not.
Having absented myself from Ecademy for a few months while sorting out my life, I realise that I had deserted all my old contacts. I am making amends, however, and am sending out a few personal messages to ‘re-connect’. It strikes me though, that in some cases I am going to be communicating, inevitably, with the dead. I feel like some dodgy medium, crystal ball and all, because these social networks just don’t seem to let their cyber personalities die along with their physical beings.
It has got me wondering, how do the social networks handle deaths in the family? How can they know that poor old Joe Bloggs has popped his clogs? Short of being informed by the surviving contacts, perhaps there is no way the network administrators could know. Given my several hundred contacts, many of whom have not made direct contact in over a year, one starts to wonder how many have left the land of the living. Large contact lists are just too impersonal to really know.
Some clever Twitter applications can tell you how redundant a networker may be (through their lack of tweets), but no social network can tell you they are dead. And if they are, why are they still lingering on the lists. Even Ecademy profiles can tell you when last a person logged in and was active, but it is difficult to go from profile to profile gathering that information. Apparently, these contacts we have, do not die. How many dead people are haunting the hallowed halls of Ecademy?